


Parting Gifts

by Maybethings



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: F/M, Friendmance, Kadanmance, Qun, Qunmance, Ultimate Sacrifice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-26
Updated: 2011-06-26
Packaged: 2017-11-02 03:27:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/364468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maybethings/pseuds/Maybethings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The night before the final battle, Warden Theramina Brosca asks her Qunari brother for a final boon--and leaves a few surprises of her own.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Parting Gifts

“Sten— _kadan_? Can I come in?”

“You may.”

Theramina Brosca, one of the last Grey Wardens in Ferelden, silently pushed open the great wooden door of her comrade’s room—and promptly got an eyeful of him sitting cross-legged below the window, sharpening his beloved Asala in nothing but the moonlight and his smallclothes.

“Sweet Ancestors!” she yelped, hands flying and body twisting away from him as she averted her eyes. Dwarva, it was said, did not blush, but she was starting to prove an exception to the rule. “Do you always polish your sword in the nude?!” she spluttered, remembering to lower her voice this time and still not  _quite_ daring to face him head-on.

“I am not nude. No more than I was at your side during the Gauntlet.” He narrowed his eyes briefly. If he could, he would chop the memories of that excursion into fine bits and feed them to Gelert, currently snoring blissfully on the floor as only a Mabari could.

“A right blessing that was. You’ll forgive me if I keep my clothes on,” she said, tugging on the hem of her nightshirt as she closed the door behind her. As she strode across the cold floors to the dim glow of the window, she couldn’t resist a few more appreciative glances at the way the moonlight played over Sten’s muscles as he worked. There was a certain gleam in her eye Sten had seen once or twice in Shale’s gaze, cunning and hungry and appreciative. But that light soon clouded over as she leaned against the wall, shoulders sagging and head bowed, and every movement tinged with a deliberate, delicate casualness.

“You sought me out for a reason.” he said, laying aside his work. The final battle with the archdemon was hours away; for now, Redcliffe Castle lay in uneasy peace. He knew that Riordan had summoned both her and Alistair on Grey Warden business, but little else beyond that. In that moment, however, the distress on her face was as clear as a second brand. “Speak.”

“I—well—” Theramina opened her mouth as if to speak, then clamped it shut decisively. “It’s nothing. Forget it.”

“Deceit is not your way.”

“It’s not a lie if I make it come true,” she said tightly. Until then, she would not look him in the eye, but she drew breath and turned to him now. “Look, after the battle tomorrow I might need you to do something for me. Then we’ll be square. About your sword, and all.”

And this from the person who had rebuffed all his thanks when she retrieved Asala? Suspicion prickled at the back of Sten’s neck, but he chose not to question her actions. She had brought them this far, at least. “If it is within my ability, it will be done.” The Warden nodded, and while she still looked ill at ease she spoke no further, staring out the window at a moon obscured by mist and clouds. He went back to sharpening his blade, murmuring verses of the Qun over it with each pass of the whetstone: words of life and death, of courage and fortitude.

“Are you talking to your sword? I’ve known a few men who do that,” she quipped at length, a crooked smile quirking the edges of her mouth.

“The words of the Qun purify our weapons. And they prepare us for battle.”

“Mind teaching me how it works?” Theramina turned from the window and sank to the floor, giving him one last appraising glance before settling her gaze firmly on the bridge of his nose. Sten sighed wearily. This was a subject they had broached two or three times before, yet she kept asking as if she expected his answer to change.

“Yes. I have already told you: it is not my place to teach others about the Qun.”

“Well, whose place would it be, then? In Seheron.”

“That of the tamassrans.”

The dwarf nodded, folding her arms over her chest thoughtfully. “Maybe it would be easier to persuade them to educate me, then.”

Sten nearly sliced his finger open at that. “What?”

“What ‘what’? Don’t tell me that’s not allowed, either,” she shot back forcefully, equal parts indignant and amused at his surprise. “If we both make it out of here alive, I’m following you back to this homeland of yours. I might not understand the prayers in that book of yours, Sten, but…I think they’re beautiful. I want to learn more about them.”

“It will be a long journey, _kadan_.”

“I won’t mind. I love traveling—or haven’t you noticed?”

He had, and rewarded her with a long, dry look as she chuckled. He remembered his original journey to Ferelden: the pitch and roll of the ship upon the waves, the hard trek overland, and the horrible damp weather, but also the thin, easy banter of the Beresaad, seven of the best men he’d had the fate to command, even if the karashok couldn’t cook for beans. It would be difficult, traveling home without companionship after so long. “I will consider it.”

“Thanks, Sten.” She rested her head against the wall and sighed heavily, the clouds fading from her eyes as she did so. “D’you mind if I stay here a while? I can’t sleep.”

He looked at her questioningly. “This has something to do with your boon?”

“No,” she admitted. “But it has everything to do with you.”

He let her stay.

* * *

The army marched the next morning, Theramina and her comrades at the front of the line. She had shared out the last and best of their equipment, and checked everyone’s packs before they left. Sten swept his gaze through the mob, and realised someone was missing: the young mage, sparkling and treacherous as the carnivorous kasaanda. He felt someone lay a hand upon his arm, and turned to see the Warden shaking her head grimly.

“Morrigan won’t be joining us, Sten,” she said in a low voice, her face hard and sad.

Denerim’s gates, when they reached them, were crawling with darkspawn. Though the creatures fell before their blades like saplings in a storm, the horde was just too large to handle for long. The army would never withstand another wave upon them alone. Theramina and Riordan made a quick decision: she would take a small party to clear the city, he would sneak around to distract the archdemon, and the rest would stay with the army to hold the darkspawn at bay. Her choice was swift and sure: Sten for the power of his sword, Shale for the power of her fists, and Wynne to keep them all healed under fire. Alistair was charged with the rest; although he objected, he did not disobey her.

Before they left, the Warden talked to all her comrades, perhaps spending a little longer discussing something with Alistair. A battle plan, perhaps, instead of words of romance—Sten could only hope, even at this late juncture. Gelert nosed her in the thigh and she bent to hug him. The dog covered her face in drool as he whined anxiously.

“Goodbye, Gelert,” she said, in the crooning tone she kept only for him. “Be good and bite lots of darkspawn in the arse for me.” He woofed eagerly and gave her face a final lick.

“Are you ready?” Sten asked as she rose. “The enemy waits. Shall we grant him the death he asks of us?”

“It’s only fair, isn’t it?” replied Theramina, a ghost of a smile upon her face, her eyes hard and flinty and determined.

“Then let us take this gift to the archdemon. We will take the field. And stand together to see our enemy fall.”

“That we shall.” She took a breath and raised her sword high. “Let’s go, everybody. The archdemon’s waited long enough!”

* * *

The great dragon shrieked its indignance at the tops of its lungs, batting away the myriad forces that plagued it as dark, poisonous blood dribbled from its jaws. Its injured wing hung at an awkward angle as the other one beat insistently against the air. Riordan’s mission had failed, but their allies had rallied around them, and victory grew closer with every second. Sten’s blade sang time and time again against its adamantine hide, shearing through scales and flesh. Shale pitched rocks at the meddling darkspawn swarming up Fort Drakon. Wynne had called upon the spirit that possessed her, and blasted the archdemon ceaselessly with bolt after bolt of rock and ice and lightning magic.

A hideous gout of flame billowed out of the beast’s cavernous jaws. The Warden, armour splattered with various shades of blood, raised her shield before Sten. The attack flared against its surface as she gritted her teeth against the onslaught. “I will give you an opening,” she murmured to him, and charged. She didn’t need to see if he was ready. She knew he would follow. Gathering what strength was left within her, Theramina swung her faithful shield and smashed it against the dragon’s bruised and bleeding sides.

It was a fatal misstep—for the archdemon. Blinded with rage and pain, the beast whirled to snap her in two, turning its back on everyone else. Sten leapt, Asala raised high, a great shadow against the crimson sky. The qunari went unnoticed until it was too late; he drove his feet against his foe’s neck, and his blade into its flesh. It roared and bucked and writhed as he hung on grimly, sinking Asala’s steel further between its scales with every attempt to shake him off. A final savage twist of the blade snapped something in the dragon, and it crashed onto its side, mortally wounded. Sten pulled Asala free and rolled away, barely escaping being crushed by a scaly head.

“Show-off,” muttered the Warden as he got to his feet.

“It gets the job done.”

“In the bloodiest way possible. I will miss that.” Inexplicably, she pulled off her bronze winged helmet, letting it fall with a clang as she shook her short, dark braids free. “Now see our comrades to safety, as quick as you can,” she said, bloody and grim and calm. “The final blow to the archdemon must fall to me.”

“ _This_  is the boon you claim?” he asked, incredulous. The Warden shook her head, sheathing her beloved sword.

“No. It’s my duty. And there ain’t no one who can keep me from it.” Suddenly, Sten realised two great, fat tears were sliding down her cheeks, cutting runnels through the grime and blood of the battle. He had never seen Theramina cry. She turned to him, eyes blazing too bright and smile too wide, and as she broke away from the group she raised her voice in a raucous yell, loud enough for all her comrades to hear over the din. “Say the Prayers for the Dead at my funeral, _kadan_!”

There was no turning back. Theramina charged. A greatsword poked out from a nearby corpse; she wrenched it free, hefted it high, slid under the beast’s jaw. The steel ripped it open from throat to chest; its roar turned into an impotent gurgle. The archdemon crashed prone, for the last time, and with a raw scream the Grey Warden plunged the greatsword through its skull.

That was the last normal and non-magical thing Sten remembered of that battle. Shafts of brilliant light erupted around the archdemon. And the sword. And the dwarf holding onto the sword. Inexplicably, Sten found a single thought pounding doggedly within his head.  _She knew. She knew. She knew_.

He started forward, his boot catching her fallen helmet with a dull clang. She turned at the sound, and met his gaze. Her eyes were filled with a look of pure trust, almost pleading.

“ _Kadan_!” he yelled—or he would have, if his voice had not stuck in his throat.

 _Kadan,_  she mouthed back. And something else he could not decipher.

Sten turned to Wynne, staring beside him, and found his horror mirrored in her eyes. He felt the explosion before he heard it, as a wave of heat lifted the army off their feet and hurled them all backwards. Sten’s skull thudded against stone, and the world turned brilliant white.

Then everything went black.

* * *

He was awakened by a frenzy of worried barking, and the rough ministrations of a canine tongue. Somehow Gelert had left the others, trailed them to the top of the fort and found them amidst the carnage. When he saw the man’s flicker open, he woofed once and hooked his nose under the man’s armpit, nudging him upright urgently.

Sten rose, his thoughts shattered at first. And then he remembered. He remembered it all. As if reading his mind, the mabari raced forward to where Wynne and some of the Redcliffe soldiers crouched. Some of the soldiers were weeping openly. Shale stood statue-like over them.

He didn’t have to kneel; he looked over their heads, instead. The Warden—no the body that  _used_ to be the Warden—lay within their circle, as still as a sleeping child. But there was a hollowness in its face; he could find no other way to describe it. He turned to Wynne, who met his gaze with a slow, sad shake of her head.

“I am sorry, Sten. She’s gone,” she whispered, and Gelert whined mournfully as he pushed his snout into her face.

A great weight seemed to force the breath out of him. So heavy. How could mere words be so heavy? He ploughed through the soldiers, ignoring their protests as he crouched before the corpse. Her face—its face was drained of blood, the blunt, fiery features calm in the way no sleep could make it. He scooped it up, armour, weapons and all. Gelert backed away then, still whining deep in his throat. ”The others must know,” Sten ground out, turning to descend the tower. He spoke no more for the rest of that day.

* * *

The day of the Warden’s funeral was ridiculously unblighted: blue skies, light wind, no clouds. It was as if the world was trying to make up for lost time. Sten glared at the bright, mocking sun and ducked into the Redcliffe armory. The guard on charge there started, but recognised his guest.

“I found what you asked for,” he said, motioning to an armour stand with a large, dark suit of heavy plate upon it. “S-sorry for the wait.” Sten simply nodded and brushed past the man. His scant desire to talk had withered further with Theramina’s death, and even with his former comrades, he spoke very little. 

It had been difficult for all involved. Leliana had looked to Sten as the battered little party approached, then the Warden’s limp form, and promptly burst into tears. She had cried enough for all of them. Alistair had glared up at Sten as if he wanted to decapitate him—then turned away abruptly instead, jaw twitching, eyes watering. Sten realised then that they had  _both_  known. Theramina had done what she could to keep the last Fereldan Grey Warden alive. And in his weakness, Alistair had let her go.  _They_  had. Sten’s grip tightened unconsciously around his burden. He would not find the reason why a Warden must strike the final blow of a Blight until much later.

For now, he appraised the dark plate, and decided it would prove sufficient. His bright battle armour was victory and triumph. This all felt like neither. Stiffly, and fighting the sharp jabs of pain that nipped at him below myriad bandages, Sten buckled himself into a suit of mourning.

Slow, heavy footsteps approached the armory. “Is the Qunari ready?” Shale asked as she poked her head round the door, her voice more gravelly than usual. He made no reply, but snapped the last buckle closed and followed. If his wounds stung and he perhaps leaned on the golem as they made their way toward Lake Calenhad, she made no mention of it.

The queen, to her credit, gave a passable speech to the crowd as the Warden’s corpse lay on a stone plinth before them. He had to stop thinking of it that way,  _the body was no longer her_ , she was not with them any more. Whatever they had done to prepare it for burial, they had done it well. Sten stood in the back of the crowd, and Alistair hid behind his bulk, eyes red and nose even redder. It was all he could do to resist the urge to shove the silly man to the front of all the attendees. She had died in his place. He wasn’t sure he could ever forgive him that.

The Warden’s sister had arrived too, a softer, painted, red-haired version of his _kadan_ , and was called forward by the queen. She and some of her family had arrived to take the Warden back to Orzammar for burial. Theramina was to be made a Paragon, the highest honour any dwarf could imagine. Sten wondered what she would have thought of the whole rigmarole, when she had turned her back on Orzammar one last time with them, resigned to the loss of one home and the finding of another with her companions.

One by one, Theramina’s motley band of comrades lined up to pay their respects. Sten hung back until the last possible moment. When he did stride forth, the assembly quailed at the sight of him. He ignored them, as he did the sunlight in his eyes. Unheeding of their stares and whispers, he bowed and recited the Prayers for the Dead before the plinth, very softly indeed. It would be for the ears of none but the _kadan_ who requested it.

The dwarves took the warden’s body with them, and the crowd began to clear. Only the Warden’s companions remained, standing awkwardly together as a group for the first time in days. When the silence stretched on too long, Alistair cleared his throat. “So. I guess it’s up to me now to say this, since our leader’s otherwise occupied.” Sten growled. Shale stared. Oghren and Leliana simultaneously choked on laughter. “Thank you, all of you, for seeing this through with us.” His voice wavered, but his eyes remained dry through some miracle of willpower. “The Grey Wardens—well, one, at least—won’t forget what you’ve done.”

“Will we see each other again, do you think?” said Leliana, staring at the assembled company with red-rimmed eyes.

“I doubt it,” Zevran said fliply, but fondly patted her shoulder. “I, for one, am unwilling to give the Crows an easy target.”

“I would like to find a way to become flesh again,” Shale said, sounding surprised at her own words. “The Warden has shown me there is worth in such things.”

“Perhaps I’ll help you, then,” Wynne mused. If the golem’s jaw could have dropped open, it would have.

“To Highever,” Alistair said, almost to himself. “And then, well, we’ll see.”

“I’m stickin’ around.” Oghren sounded as if he had a dozen nugs stuffed up his nostrils. His breath reeked of alcohol. “There’s good ale topside.”

“I will stay at court for a time,” Leliana volunteered. “There is much I wish to think about. But Sten, what will you do?”

“Go home.” Gelert barked and he held out a hand to it. “I leave today. The Arishok will have his answer about the Blight.”

“We’ll miss having you around,” Alistair said, and a few others murmured half-sincere agreement. But Sten only nodded shortly, inclined his head in farewell, and took his leave. The mabari followed at his heels, wagging his stumpy tail. It looked like he would have some company after all.

As the ship pulled out of the docks and pointed its bow northwards some hours later, the sun sparkling upon the churning waters, Sten of the Beresaad had only one worry: explaining the Warden to the Arishok, and getting it done without being accused of blasphemy.

* * *

Halfway between Ferelden and Tevinter, Sten had a dream. He was standing in the royal palace, in the borrowed suit of armour, and a celebratory feast was laid out, or what might pass for one. He expected to see a cake, but did not. Pitiful indeed. People were clapping and cheering, and the air was one of relief and joy. What happiness was there in not being strong enough to defend yourself?!

The queen was giving a speech, and standing next to her was his _kadan_ , alive, unharmed, and her eyes bright and calm before them all. “What are your plans?” the queen asked, turning to her. “Will you remain with the Wardens?”

The Warden’s eyes wandered around the hall, her gaze lingering thoughtfully on her companions and the family who had come to share in her victory. “I think I will travel…at least for a time,” she finally said. For all that it was Sten’s dream, he could have sworn she was looking directly at him when she said those words.

When the queen had finished speaking and the festivities had begun, he retreated to a corner of the hall to observe things. The mabari happily plopped down beside him, tongue lolling and tail wagging. The Warden wandered down the hall, speaking to everyone in turn. Finally she bounced up to him— _bounced_ , in heavy plate—smiling and proud of a job well done. Even he could not stand solemn before her joy, and he felt a real, wide smile creeping onto his face.

“It is good to see you again, _kadan_ ,” he finally said.

“And you too, Sten,” she grinned. “I can’t believe I miss the fighting already.”

“No doubt you will have plenty of it when you return to Orzammar.” He wasn’t sure why he said that. Perhaps he was just that sure she was still alive. The remark only made the Warden cackle wickedly.

“Return to Orzammar? I told you already. You’re going back to your people, I expect. And I’m coming with you.”

“You will have much to prove to them,” Sten said in warning. “I have been away for a long time, and my word may only do so much.”

“I’ll do the rest, then.” She looked up at him with a gleam in her eyes. “Just like I did with you, yes?”

“You are certain?” he asked quietly.

She nodded, her smile gentle and her eyes unusually soft. “I’m surprised you have to ask, _kadan_. Wherever you go, I will be with you.” A jolt ran down Sten’s spine at those last five words. Suddenly, he knew what she had tried to say at the very end.

Before he could offer any sort of reply, she turned to the others. “Hey! Hey, you lot! They want the Hero of Ferelden out there, but she’s sure as stones not going out there alone! We did this together! C’mon!”

The others approached, talking and teasing and cheering, but it was to him that the Warden turned. The green of her eyes reminded him of his forests in distant Seheron. She extended her hand, patient, waiting. After some hesitation, he took it. With a laugh, she closed her fingers tightly around his and pulled him through the castle doors, into a roar of sound and blinding light.

* * *

Sten awoke with the rush of the ship’s wake filling his ears, and the sunlight pouring into his eyes through a porthole. He must have been more tired than he expected. Thanks to Wynne’s ministrations, however, the fight would be little more than a collection of scars and memories one day. He did not immediately rise, but stared up at the planks above his head as he listened to the sounds of the ocean below him. It brought him less comfort than he’d expected.

Gelert cracked open one eye, put his massive paws up on the hammock to lick him a greeting, then turned his attention to Sten’s pack. “Parshaara. There’s nothing in there for you, hound,” he retorted, but the mabari continued to sniff and paw and whine pointedly. The Qunari roused himself, shooed Gelert out of the way and checked his supplies. Dried meat, bread, tent, pegs, poultices, a few interesting amulets and paintings, a bronze, winged helmet just right for a dwarven head on top of all that. But right at the bottom of the pack was an oddly-shaped package, wrapped in white paper and twine. Odd. He didn’t remember putting that in there before they…

 _The Warden._  She and her supply ‘checks’.

Sten slowly unwrapped the mysterious package. It was a totem, carved with great discipline, and when Gelert sniffed it he whined sadly at a familiar scent. On further inspection, the wrapping had writing on it, in an unfamiliar hand: something to do with flour and eggs and sugar at first glance, and the baking of such a mixture in ovens. Right at the bottom, it read: ‘For Sten - a Fereldan recipe. Makes 36. Don’t eat them all at once.’

She had not only returned him a soul, he realized as he gripped the message tight and read through it again, slowly this time. She had given them all her heart.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [ Change](https://archiveofourown.org/works/364470) by [Maybethings](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maybethings/pseuds/Maybethings)
  * [One Last Moment](https://archiveofourown.org/works/386365) by [Maybethings](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maybethings/pseuds/Maybethings)




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